Witches Hollow
by MelanieKS
Summary: Dean goes missing while the brothers are investigating a haunting in Arkansas. COMPLETED
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **The town and ghost story mentioned is actually a true incident that some people believe in, though I kind of twisted the idea into my own liking in order to make it more interesting, etc. So there is a lot of fact and fiction mixed within. The name "Witches Hollow" is what they call the place where the woman lived (a small village within the town). Honestly, I don't even know if the place still exists since I haven't been able to find any information on websites of people actually going there to visit it.

Obviously, I don't own the boys and if I did... Well, they would never leave my basement. I don't even have a basement, but what the hell? This is also my first time writing the brothers and I do hope I got their personalities at least close to the real thing. Let me know otherwise. I am all ears where it concerns my stories -- if something needs to be tweaked, critiqued, etc. etc.

I would like to thank my friends maiafay and smilesbright for looking over this story for me, and encouraging me to go with the plot idea I had invading my twisted little head and wouldn't leave me alone until I got it out! Hopefully you will enjoy it, too.

**Witches Hollow**

Part One

"I don't think we could be more in the middle of nowhere than we are now," Dean commented dryly, suddenly very tired of staring at deep valleys and windy, two-lane highways riddled with potholes and patches. The Impala drove over another hole, and Dean groaned aloud, slouching further in the passenger seat.

"It shouldn't be much further up the highway. The map said that we would drive right through the town if we stay on this road," Sam replied, pointing at the map in Dean's hands without looking away from the road. "See? Right there is Cave City."

Dean turned the map around and around, brows furrowed. There was no "Cave City" on the map anywhere, just Highway 167 with the closest town fifty miles west called Mountain View. He tossed the map aside and gave his brother a disparaging look from the corner of his eye. "Don't get us lost, Sammy. We'll never make it out of here alive."

"I won't," the younger brother said.

Cave City, Arkansas was their next destination; a small rural town supposedly haunted by mysterious deaths and sightings that were linked to the execution of a young Irish immigrant named Kathryn Sheridon in 1860, suspected of practicing witchcraft and killing her husband.

When the brothers were leaving Baton Rouge Louisiana, Sam had found an article about a recent incident that sparked his interest. He then followed the pattern of deaths over the course of one hundred fifty years. It wasn't just one death every year: One could die one year, then three another, or sometimes none at all – even though the sightings were still recorded. That was where the pattern ended, however, but the deaths still occurred on the same date of Sheridon's execution. It appeared that the Addison and Dubois families were the main targets, and there was no reasonable explanation behind the victims' dying of heart attacks, considering that the majority of them were healthy.

This was definitely in their line of work. Everything added up. Now, all they had to do was interview a few of the townsfolk, and find the answers they needed to get rid of the vengeful spirit – if that's what it was. When it came to their job, it was wise to never underestimate anything, because everything was possible.

"I think we're here," Sam said in a bored tone.

Dean stared out the window, one brow raised in disbelief. Nothing but vacant and dilapidated building greeted them, and even passed a stretch of land with the remains of a steel frame the only thing standing after a recent fire. The town appeared deserted for the most part until they drove down further onto Main Street, and finally saw people, if only a few, walking along the sidewalks. Some curious eyes followed the car, and one elderly lady lounging outside of a general store actually waved at Sam. He smiled nervously and waved back.

"Watch it, Sammy. They might speak a different language here. You could be proposing to the lady for all we know," Dean joked and watched as his brother swallowed, dropping his hand. Dean laughed, his eyes scanning the surroundings for a local motel or even a bar. He'd certainly need a few drinks tonight to survive this God-forsaken place.

There was a barbershop, an old nickel-n-dime store, thrift shop and a bar-b-que restaurant. It was the typical country town that would have a bank located right next to the police station, and a small church with its white picket fence and steeple. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary so far, but it was dreadfully mundane. All that Dean saw was old people and their dogs – no beautiful women baring their midriffs or cleavage for him to ogle at.

"Welcome to Hick Village USA…" he said under his breath, pushing his sunglasses over his eyes to shield the blazing, late afternoon sun and curious stares.

"Maybe we should ask someone where the nearest motel is."

"Do you think we'll have to stay the night with Bubba and Auntie Anne in their trailer home?"

"Dean…"

"I'm just saying, man. I don't think it has been this bad before."

"We're here to help these people," Sam reminded, pulling the Impala into a vacant parking spot in front of the restaurant. "While we're here we can get some food. I'm starving. Maybe someone inside will know something about the deaths."

Dean hoped. He wanted out of this town as quickly as possible. It didn't help matters that a wave of stifling humidity literally slapped Dean in the face when he stepped out of the car. He opened his mouth, tongue hanging out as though he was choking, exhaling air that felt clogged at the back of his throat. In a matter of seconds his jeans were sticking to his skin, and a thin sheet of sweat coated his back and forehead. He expelled his outer shirt, and he exchanged a look with his brother, eyebrows raised. Sam just shrugged and they entered the diner.

Every pair of eyes landed on the brothers as the door chimed closed behind them, blocking out the setting sun and the summer heat. The low hum of the air conditioner drowned out the awkward silence, but it didn't ease the tension that Dean suddenly felt. The dimly lit diner smelled of bar-b-que sauce and old wood, and he noticed strange looks directed his way. They were much more than just normal curiosity. Something wasn't right with the way they regarded him, as though they recognized him but it wasn't a good reaction. He wondered if Sam caught it, too, making a mental to ask later.

"Hey ya'll! Are you here to eat? Or are you going to just stand there and scare my customers away!" A plump, middle-aged woman with a nametag that read "Betty" greeted them cheerfully, two menus clutched to her chest. She smiled at the brothers, the expression reaching her eyes and deepening the laugh lines around the edges.

Dean opted for the more direct approach, and flashed one of his fake badges, giving the woman a stern glare in return. "We're with the Center for Disease Control." It seemed like the logical disguise, considering that the deaths were 'health' related and not murders – so far.

The woman stopped short, staring at the badge with wide eyes. "Oh…"

"My apologies, ma'am, we would definitely like a table," Sam said quickly, pressing his lips in a firm line as he gave his brother a sharp glare. He was embarrassed and irritated; Dean could tell because his little brother always found it disconcerting when he acted straightforward with people. A trait that Dean felt hard pressed of letting go.

"What brings you boys to our neck o' the woods?" Betty asked as she guided the brothers to a booth towards the back of the diner.

Dean stuffed the badge in the back pocket of his jeans, eyeing the other customers carefully. They weren't shy, that's for sure – making it very obvious that they found a particular interest in Dean. He definitely did not like the creepy vibes sent his way.

"We're here investigating the recent Addison death, along with the others before that," Sam answered. "Do you know who we can speak with about it?"

Betty suddenly stiffened and paled. Dean noted how she worked her jaw, a common nervous reaction, and the remains of her joyous smile completely vanished.

"Touchy subject?" Dean asked.

"You could say that, hon," she replied with a curt nod. The muscles in her neck bobbed as she swallowed hard, and she wiped her hands on her apron. "It was a terrible loss. That poor, poor family…"

Dean watched her closely, eyes narrowed; it was obvious she was lying to them. By the look on Sam's face, he was thinking the same thing. However, they kept their observations to themselves as they scooted into the booth.

"Well, what would you two like to drink?" The smile was plastered back on the woman's face, as though nothing had happened that caused her southern charm to stumble.

"I'll have a beer," Dean said quickly.

"Sorry, hon this is a dry county."

His eyebrows flew up in surprise. "Dry… county?"

"That means no alcohol allowed inside the county," Sam said.

"I know what it means." Dean shot his brother a look, resisting the temptation to stomp on his foot underneath the table. "Coffee instead – black"

Sam smiled at Betty, and said, "Same here."

When she left the brothers alone, Dean leaned forward and whispered, "All right, do I have something coming out of my nose?"

His brother looked up from the menu, frowning. "What?"

"I'm serious, Sammy. These people are looking at me like I've grown an extra head including horns."

Sam scanned the diner, shaking his head slowly. "No one's looking, Dean. Let's just eat." He resumed his task of looking over the menu, his mouth practically watering.

"But they were," Dean continued in a hushed tone. "Something's up about this place. You noticed Betty."

Nodding, Sam answered, "Right, but it could mean many things. Maybe she was just upset. This kind of town everyone knows everyone. She could be close with the family."

Dean blinked hard. He leaned against the back of the booth, draping his arms across the top and stared at his brother. "Or they are hiding something and strangers in their town are not welcome."

Sam nodded his head absentmindedly, with his eyes still rooted to the menu in front of him. "That's most likely the case… Hey—!"

Dean snatched his brother's menu away, forcing Sam to look at him. He pointed two fingers in front of his eyes, and said, "Focus, Sam, focus."

"I _was _paying attention, jerk."

"Bitch," Dean muttered, looking up as Betty returned with their coffee.

"Do ya'll know what you want?" she asked, placing her hands on her hips and forcing a polite smile. The lines around her eyes had darkened – a true sign that mentioning the Addison death wasn't the best approach to making instant friends in this town. Drastic change from their first impression of her.

"I'll have the pulled pork sub," Sam replied, and handed his menu to her.

Dean took a sip of his coffee, and almost choked. He refrained from making a scene and shook his head along with his hand, mouth still full of the stale, burnt liquid, indicating he wasn't hungry. When Betty left – but not without giving Dean a long look – he spit the coffee back into the mug, contorting his face. "Ah, shit. What do I have to do to get decent coffee on this trip?"

"It's not a Starbucks, that's for sure," Sam commented with a small smirk, pushing his own mug aside. He was smart enough not to taste his own, considering the reaction from Dean.

Shaking his head, Dean pushed Sam's mug toward him. "No. You have to endure the same torture as me."

"What? No."

"Yes."

"No."

"_Yes._"

"Stop being an ass," Sam said through clenched teeth.

Dean laughed, shit-eating grin plastered on his face. "It's so easy, especially with you, Sammy."

The youngest pursed his lips again before he changed the subject. "I think we should start with the families first. Interviewing them—"

"Interviewing? I have a feeling we won't get very far with it," Dean said, tipping his head toward the occupants in the restaurant. He refused to look and see if the men and women in the diner were still regarding him with such disconcerting interest, trying to forget about the feeling of eyes constantly on his back. "I'm sure these people will be tight-lipped about the truth."

"Then where do we start?"

"How about we find out where the girl lived – if it still exists?"

Sam shrugged. "There's not much about that on the internet aside from her history and the news articles of the deaths. I'm sure a few followers in the 'ghost seeking' world have tried to find her house. But I haven't been able to find any details. I wouldn't know where to start."

Sighing, Dean tapped the surface of the table with his fingers, and bit his lower lip as he thought of other ways to get the information they needed. Every idea turned up a dead end; their only option was to ask the residents of the town. "We have no choice then."

"Right," Sam agreed, nodding his head. "Let's just hope we don't find ourselves facing a brick wall along the way."

"You boys need more coffee?" Betty suddenly appeared, a pot full of the dark liquid swishing around when she held it up, causing Dean to screw his face in disgust.

"No thanks."

"Your sandwich will be out shortly, hon," Betty said to Sam. "And if you're still wonderin', you can find ole' Brian Addison at the Sherriff's station just up the street."

"Sherriff Addison…?" Dean's eyebrows rose in inquiry.

"That's right."

Sam and Dean exchanged a knowing look. "Thanks, Betty," Sam said, smiling. When she left for the third time, the youngest stared at Dean in surprise, his smile falling. "Sherriff, huh?"

"Our lucky day," Dean said derisively.

----

"Where did you say you boys were from again?"

"Little Rock," Dean answered, flashing the badge quickly. "We need to speak with Sherriff Addison."

The secretary eyed Dean suspiciously, her pen tapping a non-rhythmic beat on the countertop that divided the lobby from the office section of the station. She was a small woman, at least in her fifties, with a nose that was too big for her face and lips too small for her chin. Her light eyes were appraising Dean – up and down and up again, and seemed to approve of what she saw. Dean shifted his feet, glancing at Sam from the corner of his eye and leaned forward on the counter, giving the woman his most charming smile. _Oh God_, he thought, _I can't believe I'm going to flirt with a woman that could be my mother. _"Ma'am… In fact, do you have a name?"

"Don't try that with me, boy," she said quickly, her eyes narrowed and gauging. "I'm not some blonde bimbo you'd pick up in a bar down in the city."

Dean stepped back, his eyebrows raised in alarm. He heard Sam chuckling behind him and he frowned deeper. "I wasn't implying…"

"Sure," the secretary said slowly, the drawl in her accent making itself more apparent. Her eyes suddenly filled with mirth and a small smile, almost devious, spread across her lips. "Let me see your badge, too, hon." She was looking at Sam, her hand outstretched. Once she looked at Sam's badge, she nodded her head and shouted, "Addy! Ya got visitors!" She left the boys standing in the lobby, returning to her office without another word.

Dean shook his head, and muttered, "It just keeps getting better and better."

"You made your own bed with that one." Sam was still laughing, and Dean wanted nothing more than to wipe that silly grin off his brother's face. Lucky for Sam, the Sherriff emerged from the back office just in time to save the jerk from a beating.

Addison definitely fit the profile of your typical small town Sherriff: tall but medium build, sandy blonde hair with a little dusting of gray at the temples and light green eyes. He carried himself with a small measure of confidence, though Dean instantly noticed the fatigue in the man's stride as he approached the front counter. He slipped his bifocals off and regarded the two brothers with curiosity, but then his eyes widened slightly, and a mixture of fear and surprise filled his gaze. Addison looked away from Dean quickly, shaking his head as if to clear it, and asked, "What can I do for you boys?"

Dean cocked an eyebrow, pressing his lips in a thin line but he didn't answer. He was suddenly very tired of people in this town looking at him so peculiarly.

"We're with the CDC, investigating the pattern of deaths over the course of the past few years."

Addison stuffed his hands inside of his brown trousers and stared at the brothers with sudden disinterest. "My son just died of a heart attack. What more is there to tell?"

"And we're very sorry for your loss, Sherriff but this has been occurring for _centuries_. Can you explain that?" Dean asked.

The Sherriff straightened; his eyes dark and threatening. "I suggest you boys leave. This is a quiet town and we want to keep it that way."

Dean didn't even think before he blurted out. "Oh, is that so? Such a nice lil' town I'm sure. Then why is everyone kicking the bucket? They must be just 'dying' to stay – _umph!_" Pain suddenly flared up Dean's leg when Sam stomped on his foot, effectively silencing his brash comments from going any further. He shot his brother a dangerous glare, promising a lot of pain when they found a motel for the night.

"I'm sorry, Sherriff," Sam supplied quickly, flashing a nervous smile. "My partner is just tired from the long trip we made this morning."

Addison glared. "If I wanted CDC to come snooping around my town, I would've called. I want you out by morning – I mean it."

Dean was pulled, stumbling out of the Sherriff's station and toward the Impala, cursing under his breath the entire way. When they were inside the car, he slammed his fist against the dashboard, and shouted, "That son of a bitch! He's hiding something, too!"

"And you ruined our chance of getting something out of him by opening your mouth!"

Mouth agape, Dean stared at his brother incredulously. "That was rude."

Sam sighed wearily, leaning his head back against the seat. "We are back at square one."

"We never made it past that!"

"Exactly!" The younger brother raised his head and jabbed a finger at Dean. "Because you couldn't contain yourself once again."

"Oh, so this is all my fault?"

"It should be, but it's not."

"Then why do I feel like I'm getting the blame for everything?"

"Because I'm tired and pissed," Sam justified, closing his eyes. "I hate dead ends."

Staring ahead, Dean said softly, "Me too."

The Impala purred to life when Sam turned the ignition. He sat idle for a moment, hand on the gearshift and a frown marring his youthful features. Dean watched him silently as he shook his head, and said, "Let's just find a motel for the night and figure this out in the morning."

They found a lodge just five miles north of Cave City; a rustic log cabin that smelled of cedar and berry scented candles. The nightly fees were higher than the brothers were used to, but being the closest one to town without driving fifty miles out of the way, they settled in comfortably.

Dean collapsed on the bed he claimed, knees bent and legs hanging over the edge as he laced his fingers behind his head and stared at the ceiling. The fan above whirled around in a lazy circle, every so often making a high-pitched groan, but easily ignored as Dean's mind wandered. He couldn't stop thinking about the townspeople, and how they reacted around him. Why such an interest? Did he look like someone they knew? Most likely, there were quite a few expressions of recognition in the crowd. But it still gave Dean a bad taste in his mouth – he didn't like it. Maybe he was just tired, maybe even a little paranoid. In their line of work, it paid off to be even the slightest bit paranoid now and again. Did he really have anything— He sat up when Sam slapped him on the knee in passing, eyes narrowed when his thoughts were interrupted. "What?"

"You okay?"

Lying back down, Dean blinked hard as he focused on the fan again. "Just thinking…"

"About?"

Dean shook his head, and straightened. "These people, Sammy. I just have this feeling…"

The other bed squeaked under Sam's weight when he sat down. He leaned forward, and started unlacing his boots. "Do you think we should give up?"

"No. Dad told us to never back out on a job," Dean said. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, placing his elbows on his knees. "We just have to push and push until we find the answers we need to figure this thing out."

"If these people don't chase us out of here with guns waving," Sam said with a small smile. "So, what do we do next?"

"Go back to Addison—"

"Dean," Sam started, "That didn't exactly work today."

"That's why you'll do all the talking. I won't even be there. You're good at convincing people to talk."

Sam rolled his eyes, though he nodded his head in agreement. "That's true."

"You didn't have to agree with me, asshole," Dean said jokingly.

"What will you do in the meantime?"

Dean plowed his fingers through his hair, mussing up the spikes on top, and yawned. "I'll interview other people. See if the stories match up." His stomach suddenly rumbled andhe frowned.

"You haven't eaten all day."

"Thank you Captain Obvious for your intellectual observation," Dean said, grinning as he scooted off the edge of the bed and stood. "I need some M&M's." He remembered having a small stash of the candy left in the car.

Sam snorted and shook his head. "M&M's? Oh yeah… what a nutritious meal."

"Shut up, bitch. It'll tie me over until I can get some beer."

His brother laughed, lying back on the mattress. "You're so pathetic."

Dean checked the clip in his Kimber .45, and kicked Sam hard in the shin. His brother yelped, but he was out the door before Sam could get his own revenge, curses and promises of a slow death following Dean onto the small front porch. He shook his head and laughed softly. He hid the gun under the hem of his T-shirt, and behind his back – the weight of the weapon giving him a sense of security even if the walk to the Impala was only a few steps across the gravel driveway. "Always be prepared," John Winchester would say, "Never let your guard down because in the darkness there is always something waiting to strike."

The M&M stash inside the car was minimal, but it was enough to last Dean until the morning. He stuffed a handful in his mouth, shouldered the car door closed and walked back toward the cabin. But he froze in the middle of reaching the porch steps when the gravel behind, and just to the left of him crunched under the weight of a person's shoe. With his hand on the gun, Dean turned with the weapon raised just in time to see a baseball bat sailing toward his face. There was no time to shout a warning to Sam before darkness invaded, and he ceased to know anything at all.

**TBC…**


	2. Chapter 2

Part Two

"Hey Dean, I figured we could find some information about Sheridon in the local library. Maybe they have some articles from the 1800's still on file…Dean?" Sam emerged from the bathroom dressed in boxers, his hair damp and tussled. He looked around the cabin, but there was no sign of his brother. Sam was in the shower for at least ten minutes, surely it didn't take that long to retrieve a bag of M&M's from the car…

Resisting the urge to panic immediately, Sam toed into his boots and carried the sawed-off shotgun with him as he ventured outside, calling out his brother's name into the obscure night. Only the chirps and wails of bugs responded. Stepping further outside, Sam scanned the area around the Impala then retraced the path back to the front porch. The abandoned bag of peanut butter M&M's lay just outside the flowerbed, pieces strewn across the ground. He couldn't see any possible signs of struggle, but there were more than one set of prints surrounding the area.

Sam jumped down the last two steps of the porch, heart pounding and eyes searching frantically through the dark copse of trees that surrounded the cabin. It was silent, eerily so, and he couldn't help hoping that his brother was just playing a trick on him, hiding in the shadows ready to pounce any minute and laugh it off the next. "Dean? Dean! Where the hell are you?"

He jogged toward the car, found nothing inside and walked back to the cabin. He turned around in circles before stepping onto the porch, hoping to catch of glimpse of something – anything that would lead to where his brother went. And he swore to hell and back if Dean was playing a prank on him, he'd kill that bastard with his bare hands and then tear him to pieces.

Then Sam remembered his cell phone… He bounded into the cabin and found it by the laptop, dialing Dean's number without skipping a beat. He felt his heart plummet when it rang once before immediately switching to Dean's voicemail. His brother _never_ turned his cell phone off in hopes that their dad would call. This wasn't a game – Dean was in danger. "Shit, shit, shit!"

Sam drove into town clad only in his boxers, a worn T-shirt and his ankle-high boots still unlaced. The sawed-off shotgun lay in the passenger seat, and his cell phone clutched in one hand as he sped down the two-lane road that led straight into Cave City. How could he have been so stupid? He should've known… What? How could he have predicted that the townspeople were going to kidnap his brother? They all seemed innocent enough – maybe a little on edge and aloof, but nothing that gave any impression otherwise.

Honestly, Sam didn't know what to do once he got into town. If it was true, and the locals did kidnap Dean, they would obviously lie about it once Sam questioned. The panicked side of Sam wanted to break down every damn door and find his brother that way, but the sensible side forced him to find a more non-violent approach. He needed to find Dean without getting himself run out of the town by force, or even killed. If only he knew where to start…

Fortunately, Sam spotted Betty closing up the diner for the night. He pulled up against the curb, tires squealing, and jumped out of the car with it still running. He jogged towards her, barely aware of how frightened she reacted upon seeing him. "Have you seen my brother?" It was the first thing he could think of saying when he saw a familiar face. He didn't even know if he could trust Betty, but he had to try.

"Boy, don't you know not to sneak up on a woman like that?" Betty exclaimed once she recognized Sam, her hand on her heaving chest. Her eyes were wide and brimming with tears from the adrenaline rush of a possible attacker coming after her. "You nearly gave me a heart attack!"

"I'm sorry, Betty," Sam said breathlessly, his eyes apologetic and pleading. "I just—"

"I should give you a good smack for acting so foolish!" Betty said, shaking her head. She turned her back on Sam and locked the diner's door. Turning around, she huffed and placed her hands on her chubby hips. "Now, what is this about your brother? Is that the boy you were with today?"

"Yes. He's missing."

"Have you tried the nearest bar," she sneered and straightened out the invisible wrinkles in her skirt. "I bet that boy took the first opportunity he had to find one."

"The nearest one is at least fifty miles away, right? He was with me all night."

Betty looked at Sam, her eyes narrowed. She shook her head once and pushed past him toward her car. "Sorry, son… I haven't seen him. You may want to get ole' Addison involved."

"He didn't seem very "helpful' when we met him earlier," Sam said, disappointed as he followed Betty.

"How would you feel if you just lost your son, huh?"

"Awful, but—"

"I rest my case, darlin'."

Sam felt his frustration rising. He forced himself to calm down and asked softly, "What is going on in this town, Betty? Why is everyone dying?"

That seemed to grab the older woman's attention. She stopped just a few feet from her Oldsmobile, though she didn't turn around to face Sam. Her shoulders seemed to sag heavily at the sudden question, her fingers wringing the leather bound strap of her purse. "Son, we've been through a lot in this town…"

"You can tell me, Betty. We're here to help you. Just please…" 

Suddenly she shook her head and continued forward. She dangled her keys in front of her with every intention of escaping this conversation without giving Sam the answers he needed. "It's best you leave, now."

Sam wanted to shake her until she confessed! He tried to subtly block her from getting into her car instead. She looked up at him in surprise before anger took over her gaze, but Sam implored anyway, "Betty, you've got to help me. You know something. My brother and I… we came here to help."

"Boy, if you don't move…"

"Does any of this have to do with Kathryn Sheridon?"

Fear flashed in Betty's eyes, her face losing all color and her body frozen. Sam did not expect that kind of reaction and he reached out to comfort the woman, an apology already on his lips. He was surprised a second time when Betty's large purse swung toward his face, and he tried to jump out of the way only to have the car block his path. He yelped when Betty's purse struck him twice in the arm, and then another for good measure; the small woman repeatedly shouting threats. "Now, you get outta here! I will not have you say that name around me again, got it? I should beat your hide, you ungrateful little—"

"Betty, please! I'm sorry! I just need your help!"

She pushed Sam aside with her purse, and opened the car door with enough force to cause it to bounce back on its hinges. Her entire body was shaking when she got in the car, her lips pressed in a thin line and her face beet red. Sam had really hit a nerve with mentioning Sheridon. He couldn't help wondering if everyone in the town would have the same affect. He was surprised when Betty didn't drive off immediately; she just sat there in her car, hands on the steering wheel and the door still open. The engine was running, but it was clear she had no intention to leave yet. She fought an inner battle, one that Sam couldn't understand. _"Who are you?"_ she asked, her face slowly turning toward him. "You're not from disease control, huh?"

Sam frowned, shaking his head. "No."

"Then who are you? What are you doing here?"

"If I told you everything, you'd think I am crazy."

"Hon, I already think you're crazy," she snorted, giving him a look. "Answer my question." 

"Kathryn Sheridon is haunting your town, isn't she Betty?"

Betty gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. She glanced at Sam out of the corner of her eye before she reached over and grabbed the door handle. "You'll find your answers in the library. It's on Johnson Street." The door slammed shut and she sped off, leaving Sam stranded in the vacant parking lot.

It didn't take long for Sam to start moving back to the Impala, in a slight daze. He sat behind the wheel, and stared out the windshield in the direction where the headlights glared against a busted lamppost. Though Sam knew how to pick a lock, he never liked the idea of breaking into a public building, especially with his brother normally egging him on from behind. He tried to conjure up the motivation he needed to break into the library, but once Dean missing entered his mind, all thoughts of morality ceased – what little remained, and Sam steered the car toward Johnson street. 

Thankfully, once he found the building and snuck inside the back entrance, no alarm went off, but that didn't rule out the possibility of a silent one already putting the Sherriff's office on alert. With that thought in mind, Sam rushed through the aisles of the nonfiction section searching for the local history archive. He placed his mini-flashlight under his arm as he was forced to pick another lock to get inside the archive room, and inside he found numerous rows of shelves with filing boxes all organized in chronological order. With very little to sort through, Sam found a box labeled, "1860 to 1863" in faded black ink.

Jackpot. 

He placed the flashlight between his teeth, grabbed the box from the shelf and carried it to the nearest table to sift through the files inside. It mostly consisted of old newspaper articles and some police reports throughout the three year span. One paper in particular caught Sam's attention and he pulled out an article mentioning the death of Josephine Dubois. She was thirty-nine and found dead outside of her home, on the front steps. No evidence pointed to health related problems and instantly foul play became a key factor, but it didn't add up when the victim bore no signs of assault. It was as if she had just collapsed while on her way to town and didn't get back up again. Following that article, a police report named Jonathan Sheridon as the suspect – the last person to see Dubois alive and all fingers pointed to him without giving him a fair trial. Within a week, he was executed under the crimes of witchcraft and hanged at the age of twenty-eight.

Sam straightened and gave out a low whistle. Kathryn never killed her husband like the stories had told…

Shaking his head, Sam bent forward and read through more files. He found another police report of Kathryn becoming violent and unstable after her husband's death with numerous charges against her for threatening the families responsible for Jonathan's execution. The names mentioned filing the majority of the harassment files were Addison and Dubois. Not even six months later, Kathryn committed suicide and immediately after followed a series of deaths against the families involved, creating a pattern to the present day – her vengeful spirit getting the revenge she had wanted all along.

"Jesus," Sam muttered. "And I thought our family had dark spots."

At the bottom of the box lay a small folder full of old photos, though most consisted of group shots of the townspeople. Sam placed them aside, not interested and thumbed through the remaining stack. He found one of the Dubois family and then one of the Addison's. Under that a photo of Kathryn Sheridon with who Sam assumed was her husband. He moved to toss that picture on the pile on the table, but he did a quick double take and stared at the photo again. Slowly, his eyes widened in surprise as the puzzle pieces finally started to fit together. He uttered a curse under his breath, then another spilled forth and he dashed out of the room, the photo clutched in his hand with every intention to face Sherriff Addison and his family with the sawed-off shotgun in visible sight.

----

Consciousness was such a bitch.

Dean would've gladly given in to the blissful, painless shroud of his dreamless sleep again, but the voices surrounding him deterred that desire. It sounded as if he was listening to a broken walkie-talkie, with only garbled words of a conversation coming through, but nothing he could make out. Maybe because he couldn't get past the intense pulsating inside his head, the sensation threatening to split his skull into gory little pieces. No, that was a big understatement…

Dean forced his eyes open. Much like his hearing, he saw nothing but distorted shapes and colors even after blinking many times. He then realized it was a mistake to even try to grasp his surroundings, nausea suddenly causing his empty stomach to recoil. _Don't throw up. Don't throw up,_ he told himself, closing his eyes. He took a few deep, steadying breaths through his mouth and waited for the waves to stop rolling. He groaned, and with the low rumble of sound that came from his throat he noticed the hushed voices drawing near. They sounded stressed, even angry, but he still couldn't understand the words said.

Despite the fact that he just wanted to lie there and go back to sleep, Dean brought his arms up from his sides to brace himself as he tried to sit up. Instinct told him he had to get out of there – wherever 'there' was. He knew this wasn't right, but he couldn't remember why exactly, he just _knew_. He hoped that he only drank too much the night before and carrying the weight of a hangover, but it was highly unlikely since he clearly remembered the lack of alcohol consumed that night; actually there had been none.

_Stupid county regulations…_

An invisible force pushed him down, suddenly trapping him underneath the heavy weight with his cheek pressed against something cold and gritty. He didn't have much strength to fight as his consciousness was still in a state of limbo, threatening to pull him under again, and he just laid there breathing heavily. After several minutes, his vision soon evolved around him and shapes took form, colors separated. Although warped and angled sideways by the position of his head, Dean gathered in a spacious room – a basement. It was sparse of any furnishings aside from a washer, dryer and a hot water heater along with an old mattress situated against the far wall – a stairwell beside it. The walls were painted a bland off white with water stains and cracks in sporadic places. It had that distinct underground smell and Dean wrinkled his nose at the scent of mold and other old things.

"We can't do this…"

"What makes you think we can't?"

"He's a kid, Addy. _A kid._ He could be Sean's age…"

"Don't start that, Lynn. Please."

A sigh in response, filled with doubt and longing. "We don't even know if this will work."

It was a woman and a man talking, no wait, a second man; the one standing over Dean hadn't spoken yet. Obviously they were arguing over Dean, but why he didn't know – not even sure he wanted to know. And where was Sam?

"It's worth the risk," the first man finally said with little confidence. 

Dean assumed it was Sherriff Addison by his voice, though he couldn't see much of him past his dark boots pacing the floor. He did notice the woman sitting on the steps, elbows on her knees and face cupped in her hands. A frown marred her delicate, aging features, but it didn't take away from the fact that she was still beautiful considering her state of distress. She finally looked at him and straightened; her eyes wide. "He's awake."

The pressure between his shoulder blades lifted and Dean did the first thing his mind conjured, quickly rolling away with every intention to escape his captors, hoping that his body had the strength to do exactly what his brain screamed at him. But he was too slow, lethargic, as if moving against a crushing wave and it eventually won. Head spinning from the sudden vertigo, Dean found himself standing, the collar of his shirt clutched in a tight grip. He blinked the spots from his eyes, coercing his head to stay up instead of lolling forward and stared at the man keeping him upright under heavy eyelids. Tobacco breath assailed Dean's nostrils and he almost gagged. "Dude, ever heard of a toothbrush?" he croaked in a bovine tone, screwing his face in disgust and closing his eyes tight.

"Don't!" Sherriff Addison warned from behind, obviously preventing the other man from punching Dean in the mouth for his snide comment. "Just put him over there for now." 

Dean's vision started to tilt in various degrees as he was dragged across the room and thrown down onto the stiff mattress. A layer of dust billowed up after he landed unceremoniously on his side, causing him to cough up the dirt that clung to the back of his throat. The headache came back, no it never left, but intensified and Dean was sure it had finally split his skull down the middle. No doubt he had a concussion.

He tried to move, at least to roll over into a sitting position, but his limbs felt so heavy that all he could manage was a clumsy flop onto his stomach. Obviously the position they wanted him in as his hands were pulled behind his back and cuffed together; the same done to his ankles. Not good… 

"Don't hurt him, Larry," Lynn said, her voice dripping. "I think he has a concussion."

_No shit,_ Dean thought bitterly. He tried to sit up for the third time despite the chains, and Lynn surprised him by helping him prop his back against the wall. Instantly, he saw the search for forgiveness in Lynn's eyes, and he felt an unexpected coil of fear in his stomach. "What do you want?" he asked, looking past Lynn to stare at the Sherriff and his trusty sidekick, Larry. His question went unanswered, both men frowning at him before they started for the stairs. Dean's gaze flew from one person to another, his heart beating faster with anxiety. "Wait! What's going on?"

"Lynn? Come on." 

"Addy…"

"Lynn," the Sherriff said, his tone changing, darkening as he gave his wife a stern glare, "Now."

"I'm so sorry," Lynn whispered, shaking her head before straightening; her face a mixture of sadness and regret.

"Wha-what? Why?" Dean quickly felt his anger take over his apprehension, and he yelled at their retreating backs, "Damn it… wait! Tell me what you want! Where is my brother?" The door slammed shut and locked. Save for Dean's rapid breathing, the room was silent. An interesting find was the door had no knob, indicating no chance of escape, if he ever got out of the cuffs, unless someone unlocked it from the outside. He grunted and struggled with the restraints for a few moments, but found no give in their strength. He really started to despise the human race, and he felt the urge to bang his head against the wall in frustration, but decided better on it – he didn't exactly want to end up with another injury on top of the other. Instead, he just shouted the first thing that came to mind, _"Son of a bitch!"_

**TBC…**


	3. Chapter 3

Part Three

It didn't take long for Dean to set into motion, and _do something_ instead of moping over his current predicament on a dusty old mattress in the basement. There hadn't been any sounds coming from upstairs – no footsteps or voices. Nothing in the last twenty minutes, and the silence was about to drive Dean mad. For whatever reason these people kidnapped him, it was obvious he didn't win the millionth customer prize from the bar-b-que diner. Many possibilities sorted through his brain, and he didn't like any of their outcomes – enough incentive right there to start thinking of plans to escape.

Despite the cuffs hampering his movements, Dean scooted to the edge of the mattress and brought his knees up to his chest. He slowly moved his arms forward, bringing them under until his wrists touched his ankles. It wasn't exactly comfortable to move his joints like this, and he bit his bottom lip as he brought his chained hands under his feet and out from behind his legs until they rested in front of him. He rotated his shoulders a bit and looked around the dimly lit basement. He could see nothing in sight that could be used to pick the lock on the cuffs, until he spotted a small nail protruding from the fifth step on the staircase.

_Worth a try, _he thought idly and started to crawl toward the stairs. If only Sam could see this, no wait, Dean scratched that thought, and refused to think about his brother laughing hysterically at the sight of him moving along the floor like a damn caterpillar. But then Dean couldn't help but laugh either, and he shook his head. "Damn it, Sammy you better be okay and just sleeping like a baby in that cabin… Or better yet, your sorry ass better be looking for me."

Once he reached the staircase, Dean got on his knees and pulled himself up with his hands. The nail was a lot bigger than Dean had originally thought – too big to fit through the lock on the cuffs and he cursed under his breath. He sat back on his knees and scanned the room again, searching the floor and the low shelves storing various tin cans and boxes, but nothing that he could use. Until he caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye, under the stairs: A pair of small shears used to trim hedges. He scuttled forward and snatched the tool from the storage bin; a sudden prayer on his lips that the thing would work. He went for the ankle restraints first and after numerous uttered curses and failed attempts later, the small link between the cuffs finally snapped.

Someone was coming. A key turned in the lock and the door leading into the basement opened, with a stream of light painting the walls and mattress a soft yellow glow. Dean crouched low under the awning of the stairs and watched a pair of boots descend the steps, before he lashed out with his hands and grabbed the man's ankles. Larry gave a low yelp and tumbled down, landing at the base in a daze when he hit his head against the wall. Dean came out with the shears clutched in his hands, approaching Larry with caution. A rifle lay just to the left of the prone man's body and Dean replaced it with the garden tool, aiming the gun at Larry. The man didn't move – aside from shaking his head to clear it and groaned.

"Serves you right, asshole," Dean said under his breath. He glanced up the stairs; saw the door open and no one standing there. Then he was suddenly falling, his feet swiped out from underneath him and he landed face first on the steps, busting his chin on the wooden surface. Blood blossomed on his tongue and he muttered, "Son of a bitch" as he rolled over onto his back, eyes clenched shut. The jarring impact caused his vision to black out before pain, sharp and blinding consumed Dean's coherency, but suddenly aware of hands on his legs, pulling him down. He kicked and thrashed, instinct taking over and he tried to roll over again, to make it up the steps. Larry's hold strengthened and yanked Dean off the stairs, the momentum causing both men to collapse on the mattress in an awkward heap.

"Addy! Get down here!" Larry bellowed, wrapping his arms around Dean's waist in an effort to keep him restrained long enough for the Sherriff to arrive.

Dean growled low in his throat, and elbowed Larry in the face before pivoting his body to the side and away from the big man. He reached for the gun that lay a few feet away, but his fingertips barely brushed the butt end when he heard footsteps bounding down the steps and a rifle cocked by his ear. He froze, his heart suddenly pumping wildly as the adrenalin rush finally caught up with him.

"Give it up, kid," Sheriff Addison warned. He kicked the gun out of Dean's reach and motioned for him to sit up on his knees.

"I never was good at that whole self-control thing," Dean said flippantly, looking up at Addison through half-lidded eyes. He licked the blood from his lips and cringed – he had a split lip on top of a busted up chin. Damn, no flirting with the ladies for a while…

"He's becoming a pest more than anything," Larry said from behind. "'Bout right broke my neck when he tripped me down the stairs."

Dean couldn't hold back the sloppy grin spreading across his lips. "Oops."

Addison gave Dean a look, silently telling him to stop antagonizing the bigger man. He glanced at his friend, and frowned. "You okay now?"

"Yeah," Larry grunted and went over to retrieve his gun. "Little punk..."

"Hey, if all you wanted was for my brother and I to get out of your town you could've picked a better method," Dean said, shrugging his shoulders awkwardly.

"You think that's what this is about?" Larry scoffed, shaking his head. "It's more than that, boy."

"You know…" Dean wiped at a tickling trail of blood from his neck and sniffed. "I'm really tired of people calling me 'boy' around here."

"Get up," Addison ordered, waving the rifle around. "We're leavin'."

Dean narrowed his eyes, refusing to do what he was told. "No. Not until you tell me what the hell's going on." The butt of Larry's rifle cracked against the side of Dean's face, pitching him sideways. His face tilted crazily first to one side, then the other, and Dean thought he was going to throw up. Closing his eyes, he said, "It started out like a pretty good day."

"No more jokes, kid," Addison said with one hand under Dean's arm, bracing his suddenly profound weight – his legs like jelly. "Just come with us and make things easier on yourself."

"Yeah, sure," Dean mumbled, blinking lethargically and leaned against the Sheriff for support. "Where are we going again?"

"Just shut up," Larry said roughly.

"Brian!" Lynn suddenly came down the stairs, eyes frantic and wide. "Brian, there's another kid at the door… I think it's his friend!"

Dean jerked to attention, blinking a few times to clear his head. Did he just hear right? Was Sam outside? Did he even know Dean was here? If he could find a way to escape… let Sam know where he was – that's all he needed.

The Sheriff swore under his breath and his grip subconsciously tightened around Dean's arm, causing him to grimace through the haze of his muddled brain. "Just calm down, and go make sure he doesn't suspect anything."

Her eyes hardened and she frowned. "No, Brian. I will not get more involved than I already am. I will not do this—"

"Lynn, we don't have a choice!" Addison said desperately. He released Dean and pushed him toward Larry. "Just please! Keep him busy until I can make it up there!"

Lynn stared at Dean, her frown deepening. She gripped the banister tight, and her jaw clenched as she asked, "You hurt him again?"

"Just go upstairs, Lynn, _please._"

While the Sheriff was occupied, Dean used the opportunity to his advantage and slammed his elbow up and into the man's nose, sprouting blood and curses in the process. He spun on his heel and kicked Larry in the groin, knocking the big man over with another kick to his face when he jack-knifed. He cried out and grabbed at his bleeding nose. With the element of surprise in his favor, Dean bolted for the stairs, intent on _running_ like a mad man out of hell – he had to get to Sam.

He made it halfway up the stairs when Larry's bulk slammed into him from behind, causing both of them to topple forward in front of Lynn's feet. She cried out and stepped back as if burned, but she didn't retreat. "Larry, don't!"

Dean lashed out with his legs, connecting with something solid though he didn't know what. If Larry's cry of pain was any indication, it had to hurt. He kicked again and the hold around his body relented, giving him leeway to scramble up the last steps, past Lynn's frozen form and the doorway. His main focus was getting out of that damned basement and reaching Sam – to hell with helping these crazies with their problems. "Sam! Help! Sam, I'm here!"

He heard the whoosh coming from the hallway to his left, but Dean didn't have the chance to dodge the broomstick that collided with his back, causing him to arch in agony. Caught off guard by the force of the impact, Dean fell forward, bracing his fall with chained wrists. He turned over onto his back, groaning and stared at his latest attacker. His eyes grew wide with disbelief. A girl, barely sixteen – who looked so much like Lynn it was unmistakable of the relevance – stood over him, chest heaving and broom clutched in both hands. It was obvious she hadn't intended to do much harm, just protecting her family. That didn't matter to Dean – he just had the shit beat out of him by a damn _girl_. He couldn't shake the thought from his head, even when Larry appeared in his line of sight, sneer and all. He hauled Dean from the floor, dragging him down to the basement with a painful twist of his arm. Dean glanced behind his shoulder, and saw the girl standing there, shell-shocked and still holding the broom in white-knuckled hands, apparent guilt washing over her gaze.

"Damn rednecks… You're all a bunch of crazy sons of bitches!" Dean yelled, stumbling down the steps when Larry pulled him. He forced his feet to stop moving, rooting himself to the wooden steps despite the pull on his arm from Larry. He stared at Addison as the older man climbed the stairs, passing by them, wiping the remnants of blood from his face with a grimace. "Whatever you have planned – if it has to do with Kathryn Sheridon, it won't work! Think about this before you do something stupid, Sheriff." Dean tried to reason. He didn't know where it came from – not even certain it was true about Sheridon, but by the Sheriff's reaction, he suspected he had hit home.

Addison's face tightened, eyes glazing over in anger. He shook his head once and continued to ascend the stairs, turning his back on Dean. "Keep him quiet," he said to Larry over his shoulder, throwing the man a berating glare. "And make sure he stays that way."

Dean watched the Sheriff disappear down the hall, his wife following close behind with shame in her eyes, and suddenly Dean felt pity for her and their family. Why? He didn't know – that stupid human nature of his that couldn't help caring for others despite the possibility that they wanted to use him as some sacrifice against Sheridon's spirit. _Interesting idea – not sure I want to see it happen, though, _Dean realized as Larry dragged him further into the basement, and shoved him down to sit on the floor with his back pressed against one of the support posts. Larry unlocked the cuff from one wrist and twisted Dean's arms behind his back, around the post. Then he ripped off a piece of duct tape and approached. Dean turned his face away, and said, "You're making a big mistake here, Larry."

"It's a small sacrifice for my family to live…" Larry muttered, pressing the tape firmly over Dean's mouth and straightening. Was that regret Dean recognized in the man's eyes? Larry didn't give him enough time to confirm, and left without another word or glance.

----

Sam paced the driveway, the old photo of Kathryn and her husband clutched in his hand. He couldn't believe it – the similarities between Dean and Jonathan were so dead on, as if his brother had actually _lived _in that time over one hundred years ago. He couldn't help but contemplate the possibility of a link in their ancestry – on their Mom's side, perhaps. She did have some Irish in her, didn't Dean tell Sam that once before? Unless it was all just one big coincidence— Sam suddenly looked up when the Sheriff opened the door and stepped out onto the porch, dressed in casual jeans and a red T-shirt with "University of Arkansas" across the front. He threaded a hand through his sandy hair, and appraised Sam as he leaned against the support post leading down the steps. "I thought I told you to leave this town," the Sheriff said, his voice devoid of emotion. His features conveyed otherwise – haggard and anger underlying around the edges. Sam also noticed the man's nose – red and swollen as though he'd been punched. That raised a red flag for Sam.

"Sir," Sam started, and took a deep breath to ready himself for what he rehearsed in the car on the way there. It sounded logical coming out of his mouth in the Impala, but when trying to explain to others exactly what their family did, it didn't always turn out pleasant – usually ending up with a crazed look, fear or even a shotgun fired in the air before threatened to leave. "I know there's more to this town than meets the eye. I know what's haunting you and your family. My brother and I are—"

"That's bullshit," Addison interrupted. "I don't believe in that kind of stuff, kid."

"Then how can you explain the pattern of people dying – your _family_ dying for that matter, along with the Dubois'. Something is getting revenge… and you're its main target."

Addison straightened, his eyes darkening in much the same way they did earlier when Dean and Sam had met him the first time. "I warned you once and I won't do it again. Leave my town or I will force you out. Understand?"

"Yes, and I'll leave just as soon as you return my brother and let us take care of this vengeful spirit for you."

"What?"

Sam blinked, but held his ground when the Sheriff advanced. "I know you have my brother, Sheriff. You think that because he looks like Jonathan Sheridon this will solve all your problems. It won't. She won't stop—"

The Sheriff scoffed, shaking his head. "You're crazier than I thought, and I should have you arrested for impersonating a government agent."

Sam clenched his jaw, along with his fists at his side. He held back his anger, and asked calmly through clenched teeth, "Where is he? Where's my brother?"

Addison didn't answer, glancing up when a pair of headlights approached his driveway. Sam turned and squinted against the bright glare, cursing inwardly when he noticed the dormant lights mounted on the roof of the car – one of the Sheriff's deputies no doubt.

The guy couldn't have been much older than Sam, curly carrot-top and freckles giving him the appearance of a teenager despite the gun strapped to his hip. He gave Sam a once over before he stepped up to Addison, and whispered, "Sir, there was a break-in at the library. It looks like some files were stolen in the archive room."

"Oh? Is that so?" Addison looked at Sam accusingly, narrowing his eyes. "You seem to be getting yourself in more trouble by the minute, kid. I should take you in right now—"

Sam held up his hands in defense. "Look, I can explain everything. Just give me a chance to show you the proof!"

Addison seemed to have made up his mind long ago, even before his deputy arrived. "Hoots, take him to the station and make him stay overnight. I'll deal with him then."

"Wait, Sheriff… Listen," Sam said with desperation in his voice, and waved the photo in front of him. "This is all I took. You have to listen to me. This spirit – the only way you can get rid of it is with salt and burning the bones. Giving my brother to her won't help your family!"

"I don't want to hear it," Addison said, holding up his hand. There was a sign of an inner struggle, as if the Sheriff tried to believe Sam, but he couldn't. A stronger motive held him back from opening his eyes to the truth, and he tried to turn his back on it. "You've explained plenty."

Hoots circled around Sam, cuffs in hand. Sam shrugged away from him when he reached for his arm, and approached the Sheriff. Before Sam could reach him Hoots intercepted, slamming him against the hood of the Impala with a grunt. The kid had more strength than he let on, definitely surprising Sam into docility. He cursed under his breath as the cuffs snapped around his wrists, wondering when the roles had suddenly reversed. Normally his brother got himself arrested on more than one account, while Sam needed the rescuing. How would Dean get out of this?

"You should've never come here," Addison told Sam, while Hoots escorted him to the squad car. "Next time you should take some good advice and stay out of other's business."

Sam's lips curled up in a snarl. "Sheridon's spirit won't rest by sacrificing my brother to her. I'm hoping you're all wrong and she's not interested in him, but will it be worth it to you if she is, Sheriff? Will you be able to live with yourself by condemning my brother for your family's mistakes?"

"Once this is over and my family is _safe_, I'll rest just fine."

"Go to hell," Sam threatened, venom dripping from his words. "You won't escape Kathryn's spirit so easily... You _need_ us. We're your only chance of getting rid of it."

Addison nodded toward his deputy, pushing Sam into the backseat of the car. Hoots situated himself behind the wheel, shifted his eyes toward Sam in the rearview mirror before he drove away from the Addison home. Sam slammed his head against the back of the seat, closing his eyes tight in frustration. This wasn't exactly how he had planned for this to turn out.

TBC…


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you guys for reviewing and giving me the encouragement to continue. I really appreciate it!**

* * *

Part Four

Dean woke with a start, trying to remember when he had allowed himself to fall asleep. Without a window to tell the time of day, he didn't know if it was only a few hours or all night. He bit back a groan as the aches and pains began to flare up with sudden vigor, making him feel like he'd been hit by a Mack truck. Forced to remain in the same position for God-knew-how-long didn't help ease the discomfort, either – only made it worse with stiff muscles and restricted blood flow. He seriously needed to keep a paperclip on his person for occasions like this, since he seemed to find himself in handcuffs more often than not. Something, which in fact, he grew rather tired of.

_Sammy…_

Suddenly he realized the reason why he'd been cuffed to the post, hoping that his brother hadn't gotten himself into trouble. Damn it, if only he'd been able to get past these freaks – he was so _close_. He shut his eyes and inhaled deep, angry at himself for not staying alert, for not taking the townspeople seriously when they had given him strange looks from the beginning. He should've _known _to act upon his instincts instead of just thinking, _"Oh, nothing to worry about. These hillbillies don't know the difference from their asses and a grain of intelligence." _

If their dad were here, he'd beat Dean senseless for acting so foolish and making Sam vulnerable in the process. No one was out there to watch out for him, and Dean felt his heart clench with worry over his brother's well-being. He didn't think he had much to worry about since Sam had proved on more than one hunt that he could take care of himself, but that didn't quench the 'big brother' anxiety any better.

The feeling of someone watching him – eyes boring into him, caused Dean to tense his body, and look up. He couldn't believe he didn't sense it sooner, wondering how long the presence was there, and blamed it on the head injuries. Blinking through the haze from sleep and one too many blows to the head, Dean stared at the girl who had successfully ended his escape attempt with a broom. He couldn't help the scowl darkening his face, and he subconsciously pulled at the cuffs around his wrists with the sudden urge to _hit _something. Unable to do anything, he just stared at her with narrowed eyes, challenging her instead.

She didn't speak right away, just stared at him with a sense of abstract awe. Calm and serene was more like it, as if studying a painting and trying to figure out its story – its past and future all in one gaze. She found him intriguing. "My dad doesn't know I'm down here… he'd probably raise hell," she said with a small, nervous laugh. "I just had to see it for myself."

_What the hell…?_

"You really do look just like him," she continued, her gaze deep and searching as if for a long lost truth. "I've seen pictures of him."

Dean's brow creased in puzzlement. Who was she talking about? Who did he look like?

"It's kind of scary to think—" She paused, looking down at her hands on her bent knees, playing with the frayed edges of a hole in her jeans. Swallowing down what looked like tears she quickly looked back at Dean, and forced a smile. "I don't blame her, ya know? I read about her in the old newspapers after my Uncle died five years ago. I didn't believe my parents when they told me it was hereditary – I was so mad at them for telling me that, for keeping such a big secret from the rest of the family." She shook her head and sighed, rubbing her hands down her thighs. "But when I found out everything, I still can't find a part of me that's mad at her. I think I would've done the same thing…I don't know."

Dean made a noise of frustration, and rubbed the side of his face against his shoulder, desperate to speak and ask questions. He tried to persuade her to take the tape off, but she seemed to hesitate, reluctant to come near him after what had happened earlier. Imploring with his eyes, the girl finally stood from her perch on the stairs and came forward, her stride cautious and slow as though she was ready for Dean to attack her at any moment. Her fingers shook when she peeled the tape away, but Dean thanked her with a smile to calm her apprehension.

Then the questions came pouring out…

Addison's daughter held up her hand, frowning. "Wait… you don't know anything?"

Dean gave her a look. "Reasons for the questions, sugar. Keep up."

"I was talking about Kathryn Sheridon. This is crazy, but I think her ghost is haunting our family, and the Dubois', too."

"I know that much," Dean said, grunting. He tried to stretch his limbs, his back stiff and sore, but it only caused him more discomfort and he cringed. The girl had a powerful swing; he was sure his back bore bruises testament to that. "Trust me, it's not crazy. I've seen worse. What I want to know is why me? What do I have to do with all of this?"

"You look like her husband."

Such a simple answer; not exactly what he expected to hear, however. "Well, that puts everything into perspective now." He shook his head and coughed a laugh, looking up at the girl. "What do you know about Kathryn? What's the real story?"

She told him everything she knew. The entire legend had been twisted around to make everyone believe that Kathryn had actually killed her husband and practiced witchcraft, placing the blame on someone else to make the real people at fault look good in the end. No wonder members of the families were kicking the bucket every year – Sheridon definitely wasn't a happy spirit. Dean had suspected that the families wanted to use him as some sort of sacrifice, but this put things on another level, and he was afraid that it might actually _work_.

"Damn it," he groaned and shifted. "Your family is crazy, I hope you know that."

She frowned again, brow furrowed as she slowly made her way toward the stairs, but she didn't leave – just sat down again. Placing her chin in her hands, she stared at Dean through the corner of her eye, appraising him. "What's your name?"

"Dean," he answered gruffly, still trying to find some leverage in the cuffs. He really needed to get out of here before the Sheriff or Larry decided to make another appearance. Maybe if he gained the girl's trust…or at least convince her to let him go. "And yours?"

"Rachel," she said distantly.

"Was your brother the only one she took this time?"

Rachel gave a clipped nod, and looked away with tears shimmering in her eyes.

"I need you to listen to me, Rachel," Dean said, his words imploring. He waited for her to return his gaze, and continued, "I know I didn't give you the best impression of me by hitting your dad earlier, but you have to trust me. It won't stop with me." Or at least hoping it didn't have to start with _him _in the first place.

"What do you mean?" she asked, brows creasing in worry. "My dad said—"

"Look, he's your dad, I know that, and he's supposed to have that 'daddy-knows-everything' persona, but he doesn't know jack about what he's up against."

"And you do?"

Dean sighed. "Yes. It's what I do."

"What are you saying?" she asked incredulously.

Leaning his head back against the post, he regarded Rachel carefully. "Ever watched Ghost-busters?" She nodded. "Just think of that without all the cheesy get-ups and marshmallow giants added in the mix."

Rachel actually smiled, amused. "You're serious, huh?"

He grinned. "Always – okay, I'm lying there, but I am where it concerns my job."

"It makes sense, though," she said, shrugging. "You don't seem like the type to visit this sort of town on a whim."

"Oh, I don't know," Dean said with the grin spreading wider, and lifted his eyebrows in mock admiration. "The cabin's nice. Like the cabin." He made her laugh. Now, all he needed was to persuade her to get the keys to the cuffs. Or find him _something _to pick the lock with. "Hey Rachel… I need you to do me a favor." She gave him a skeptic look, and he forced a small smile to dissuade her doubts. "Look, it's not much… but you have to find my brother. Can you do that for me? Tell him he needs to kill this spirit before—"

"I'm sorry," she interrupted; her voice sullen. "Your brother was arrested."

Dean blinked hard, shock washing over his features slowly. "What? Why?"

"He broke into the library," Rachel said matter-of-factly.

A flurry of curses spilled from Dean's mouth before he realized he had a teenager watching him intently. He gave her an apologetic look, and sighed. "This is not good," he muttered, trying to think of what to do now; his mind drawing a complete blank. With Sam behind bars, they had lost their only chance of getting rid of the spirit. This wasn't supposed to happen – a clean investigation, possibly a swift disposal of a pile of remains and then they could go on to the next town, and their next gig. Where there were pretty ladies and plenty of drinks to go around. Why couldn't it be that simple? Dean finally concluded that he and his brother were cursed men – doomed to find themselves in trouble every corner they turned.

_There is definitely something wrong with this picture… I should be getting laid by now. Not tied up in a basement and with Sammy behind bars. _Dean groaned, closing his eyes. He had to figure a way out of here, and fast.

"Did you still want me to give him a message? I help my dad out in the station during the day," Rachel said, cutting through Dean's unsuccessful attempt to think of a plan. He opened his eyes and looked at her, shaking his head.

"I need you to believe me when I tell you that you have to let me go, Rachel. You have to find the keys to these cuffs and get me out of here," Dean said, pulling on the restraints for emphasis.

"But—"

"Please, Rachel. All I want to do is get my brother, kill this spirit and then drive the hell out of your town. Oh, and I want a nice, cold beer, too. That's all I care about. I promise."

Rachel seemed to weigh his words; the silence between them heavy and long. Dean wasn't sure she'd go through with it, and he felt a bit of his hope crumble. Then she stood with a new determination in her eyes, and said, "I'll do it. I believe you, Dean. You seem like a good guy and you don't deserve to die because of my family's past."

Relief poured out of Dean in waves, and he slumped against the post with a small laugh. "Thank you, Rachel – for believing me. You're doing the right thing."

She smiled, nodding. "I'll be right back with the keys." She climbed the remaining steps and opened the door only to have her father and Larry greet her in the doorway. With a small cry of surprise, she stepped back while Dean swore under his breath. "Dad, I—"

"What are you doing?" Addison asked, accusing and angry. "I thought I told you not to come down here, Rachel."

"I know, but—"

Addison ground his teeth, anger bristling on the surface, but he held himself back. Dean noticed the struggle when the Sheriff tensed his body. "Go to bed," he ordered, and stepped out of the way.

"Yes, sir," Rachel mumbled and brushed past them, but not without sending Dean a quick glance over her shoulder; her eyes filled with the apology she couldn't voice aloud.

Dean looked away from her, sudden defeat causing him to clench his jaw in a firm line. He wanted to _scream_. With Rachel gone and Sam in a holding cell, Dean had no allies left, and he wanted to bang his head against a wall for getting caught so easily. Never mind his dad beating the shit out of him if he ever found out about this, Dean would do it himself. Maybe even kick Sam's ass for getting arrested.

He glared at Addison and Larry as they approached, his body straining instinctively, hands balled tight behind him. "Moment of truth, huh, boys? You still think getting rid of Sheridon's spirit this way is going to work?"

"I guess we'll find out sooner or later," Larry chided, rounding Dean's body to release the cuffs.

Dean stared at Addison, his eyes narrowed. "What do you plan to do with my brother?"

"Nothing," Addison said simply, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'll leave him to think over things in that cell until dawn then let him go."

"That's it? Getting him out of the way until the deed is done, right?" Dean said bitterly, lips upturned in a vicious sneer. "Dude, your desperation is really screwing you up." Larry unlocked one wrist, grabbed Dean's arm before he could move it himself and forced him to stand on shaky limbs, snapping the cuff back around his wrist behind his back again. There wasn't even a chance to attempt to twist away, and Dean inwardly groaned.

"I'm sure if you were in our shoes, you'd try to find a way to save your family – at all costs. Am I right?"

Dean glared. "I wouldn't sacrifice another's _life_, that's where you and I are different, Sheriff. And my brother knows that, too. He'd do the same thing." Addison peered over Dean's shoulder at Larry, but Dean forced the Sheriff to look at him as he said, "Why do you think my brother and I came here in the first place? You guys don't even have _beer_…"

"What are you getting at, kid?" Addison asked, impatient, but willing to listen it seemed.

"My brother and I hunt these things for a living, though the pay is pretty bad… or actually there's none for that matter, but my point is that we know how to get rid of this spirit without anyone else having to _die _in the process," Dean said, hoping that his words would turn on that little light bulb in the older man's head, and shed some light in his incompetent brain. It was a stretch, but Dean held out hope.

"Why would you hunt spirits?" Larry asked, disbelieving. "What's in it for you?"

"If you're thinking glory? Fame? You're wrong," Dean said over his shoulder, lifting it slightly. "It's just something that my brother and I have been trained to do all our lives, and we do it to help people."

"Trained? Like some military fanatic?"

Dean wanted to punch Larry, so bad that his eye twitched along with his fingers. If he ever made it out of here alive, he'd make sure to give the big guy a good smack just for the hell of it. And then another for good measure.

"See? This is what I'm talking about," Larry said, waving his hand around in irritation. "The kid's just making up stuff to fool us."

It took everything inside of Dean not to rebut against that comment, but he really wasn't in the mood for another blow to the head. He focused on Addison instead; the one man he truly needed to convince here. "Look, where is her body buried?"

Addison shifted on his feet, one eyebrow raised. "Your brother brought up the same thing…"

"Of course he did," Dean said. "It's the best way to get rid of this spirit for you. This is not something I'm just pulling out of my ass here. I can prove it to you."

"Do you want to know what she says before taking a victim?"

Dean blinked, taken aback by the Sheriff's abrupt question. "What?"

"'I want him back,'" Addison said gravely, frowning. "Now, in my book that constitutes to one thing, since chance just came upon us with you coming into town and carrying the face of her husband, I'm going to bet she'll be one happy spirit once she gets what she wants."

It took a moment for Dean to compose himself, his voice low as he said, "You're insane."

"I'm a man desperate to save his family and his town. That is all," the Sheriff said, as if he had just told Dean how lovely the weather was outside. "You say you want to help us then think of this as your way of contributing to the cause."

Dean couldn't think of a word to say in response – just clenched his jaw tight, and allowed Larry to escort him out of the basement and into the Sheriff's SUV outside. No sign of Rachel or Lynn as they passed through the house. It was still dark out, only a few more hours until dawn approached, and Dean hoped that Sam would find a way to get out of jail before it was too late.

The drive through some back roads was silent and filled with so much tension it was palpable. Dean stared out the window, memorizing the scenery, mind whirling, and trying to ignore Larry's presence beside him in the backseat all at once. It didn't exactly help with the pounding headache, and he was barely aware of the vehicle rolling to a stop. When Larry urged him to scoot across the seat to get out on his side, Dean snapped back to reality and surveyed the surrounding area.

A small, common village, abandoned – the homes deteriorating with time. The wooden structures sagging and rotting away, giving the sense that if you barely touched them they'd collapse into a pile of termite-infested lumber and dust. And Dean was dragged toward one of the houses with a front porch barely keeping itself together with one support column of wood – the awning drooping precariously close to the ground. Dean eyed it cautiously as he ducked and was forced to walk inside first, Larry right behind him with a grip around his forearm.

"Why haven't you torn this village down?" Dean asked aloud, out of curiosity.

"Trust me, we've tried," Larry said with apprehension dripping from his words. His flashlight bounced along the barren walls as they walked further inside. "It just comes back."

"Oh, that's nice," Dean said sarcastically, "great addition to the whole story."

"Every time we tried to burn or bulldoze the village, we'd come back the next day and it was standing again, but worse than before," Addison said from behind. "It slowly rots away."

"Interesting," Dean muttered, looking around the one-bedroom home wherever Larry's flashlight shone.

Small and cramped, the room held little furniture. Roaches crawled through the cracks in the walls and across the warped hardwood planks. Centuries of collected dust coated the cracked windows and thick cobwebs piled in the corners. A sagging, iron-framed bed occupied a third of the room near the windows overlooking the back portion of the house's yard. The musty smell was stifling, along with the underlining scent of something that had crawled inside the house and died long ago, causing Dean to gag. He shook his head and tried to hold his breath, or at least breathe through his mouth instead. It only seemed to make it worse, the stagnant odor coating the back of his throat, and reminding him of one of the reasons why hunting wasn't always enjoyable.

_The perks just aren't adding up anymore, _Dean thought derisively.

Larry released Dean's arm, and he turned around only to have the flashlight glance under his chin and send him reeling. He landed in a crumbled heap on the floor, dazed but still conscious – barely. A painful moan surfaced from Dean's throat, as he rolled to his side, blinking past a layer of dust floating through the air. He vaguely heard an apology from Larry – or was it Addison? – when the flashlight landed another blow across his temple and darkness quickly followed.

**TBC…**


	5. Chapter 5

**Gah! I'm so sorry it took me so long to get this chapter finished. Sam's POV was being a major bitch. I do hope you enjoy, and please let me know what you thought of it. And I want to thank each and every reviewer out there for giving me the encouragement to continue. Thank you! Thank you! And also a huge thanks to my beta Carrie.**

* * *

Part Five

Sam paced from one end of the cell to another, stopped, chewed his thumbnail and then resumed pacing. He paused long enough to glance through the bars at the redheaded deputy lounging in a reclining desk chair, sifting through the brothers' most prized possession: John Winchester's journal.

Rolling his eyes, and helpless to stop Hoots from snooping, Sam sat down on the cot, elbows on his bent knees with all ten fingers plowing through his hair. He sighed and rubbed the heels of his palms against his eyes; fatigue settling and giving him a headache. The journal wasn't the only thing confiscated from the Impala – the sawed-off shotgun he had brought along with him, including his cell that lay on the desk. Fortunately, the stash of weapons in the trunk box remained locked and hidden inside the spare tire compartment.

Time was running out; he didn't know how to get his brother back, and end this hunt on a lighter note that didn't involve kidnapping, arrests, and human sacrifices. Nothing ordinary followed the Winchesters, so he wasn't very surprised with the outcome of this particular hunt – but it still set him on edge. Considering that he had no idea where Dean could be, or if his brother was okay.

God, he hoped so.

The thought of Dean almost caused Sam to pace again, but he held back the urge and tried to think of a way to get out of the cell – to find someone who could help him locate the remains of Sheridon and get rid of her for good. Then find Dean. However, the idea caused problems when he couldn't rely on the locals. Many weren't helpful in the first place, besides Betty, but she hesitated enough for Sam to understand that she had done her good deed for a while. He was alone on this one.

Hoots straightened, making a sound of surprise, and Sam drifted from his thoughts to look up. He slapped the leather bound book on the desktop, and looked at Sam incredulously. "Demons, reapers…Latin verses? What is this stuff?"

Sam tightened his jaw, angry with the fact that the deputy had taken the liberty to look in the journal in the first place, but he couldn't find it in him to fuel that emotion. The deputy was only doing his job, most likely naive and oblivious to the Sheriff's shortcomings. No doubt that most of the townspeople fell under the same category: a small community trying to keep itself together despite the amount of death that consumed it. They were only doing what they thought best to keep their families safe, but they still should've listened to Sam. At least he _knew_ what the town faced and how to get rid of the problem, or so he hoped. Now, all he had to do was think of a way to get out of jail to complete the job.

"It's nothing," Sam answered finally. "Just something my brother and I are putting together for a book."

Hoots didn't look convinced. "This is some serious stuff…"

"It's called research," Sam snapped. "Now do you mind not looking through it anymore? It's kind of personal."

"I'd say…" the deputy said with a low whistle, his gaze on the shotgun. He touched the handle, hesitant, observing as if he expected it to go off like a hairline trigger. "Do you always carry this around with you?"

Sam rubbed at his temples and clenched his eyes shut; the headache was getting worse. "No, only when I when have these homicidal urges to blow heads off…" he said with sarcasm dripping from his words.

Hoots snorted a laugh, but his comment was lost in the midst of stars exploding before Sam's eyes and the blood roaring in his ears.

When the vision came, it wasn't a welcoming experience. He hunched over, gasping as pain overwhelmed him. In a matter of seconds, his vision turned white and blinding – before the cell quickly reformed into the interior of an old shack, deformed and aging, barely able to hold itself together. The room was dark, save for the dying moonlight peeking through the broken windows and holes in the roof. Dean lay on a bed, cuffed to the rusted, steel frame with Sheridon's spirit on top of him, straddling his waist. A look of horror crossed Dean's face, and the house shook as if an earthquake had just passed, causing the wooden structure to lose some of its support. Shutters and doors repeatedly opened and closed by an invisible force; the ghost gave an ear-piercing shriek, her head tilted back and her mouth yawning unbelievably wide. Her face distorted, fluttering and jerking while rivers of blood poured from a deep wound across her throat. Dean turned his face away from the gore, and cried out Sam's name before the house collapsed in on itself, taking Dean with it to the ground.

"Dean! _No_!"

Sam jerked back to the present with the feel of hands on him, steadying him, and he opened his eyes to see Hoots in his line of sight. He was on the floor, the deputy kneeling next to him with wide eyes filled with horrified concern. "Are you alright? You-you were crying out," Hoots stammered. "I didn't know—"

_It's now or never, Sam… Just do it. _

The after effects of the vision still grasped Sam in a nauseating daze, and he wasn't sure the right uppercut to Hoots' chin would do the trick. Evidently, it did enough as the deputy reeled from the unexpected blow, knocking himself out by hitting his head on the edge of the cot.

"Sorry, so sorry," Sam mumbled as he bent over the deputy's sprawled form, detaching the cell keys from his belt. He retreated from the cell, locking the door behind him, and left the keys on the lobby counter in passing, but not without snatching up his belongings – including the journal.

Sam stopped short outside the station. To his surprise, he found the Impala parked next to Hoots' squad car, not expecting to see it there. It suddenly occurred to him that they were going to release him – most likely getting him out of the way to keep him from ruining their plans for Dean. He seethed walking back into the building to search for the keys to his brother's car, at least thankful that Dean wouldn't have to kill him if anything had happened to his 'girl' while he was arrested.

_If Dean lived through this— _Sam immediately tried to push the dread aside before he could dwell on it further, but he couldn't seem to dissuade his heart seizing in panic. What if he was too late? Trapped alive underneath the pile of termite-infested lumber, Dean could already be crushed – or worse – dead.

_Focus, Sam, focus!_

Shaking his body as if to get rid of a sudden chill, Sam tried to remember what the archive papers had written on where Sheridon was buried. Then it dawned on him; Oaklawn Cemetery, lot thirteen. Sam snatched the Impala's keys from a hook inside the Sheriff's private office with sudden determination. Gathering the rest of their belongings from the cabin, and destroying the remains became the best option then he could worry about getting his brother back.

----

"Help! Can anyone hear me? HELP! Son of a _bitch_ – somebody!"

It was a futile attempt to scream, Dean knew, considering the abandoned village was on the outskirts of town with little chance of anyone in hearing distance, but he couldn't just lie there feeling useless. He didn't like it. However, Larry and Addison had made it nearly impossible for him to escape with both hands and feet chained to the frame of the bed. No matter how flimsy it had looked upon first glance, the damn thing still held strong after numerous attempts to shake it apart. The effort only resulted in chaffed wrists, trembling, overexerted muscles and a splitting headache on top of disrupting insects and other creepy crawly critters skittering about the shack. He cursed, giving the cuffs around his wrists another fruitless tug before allowing his body to relax.

"I need a damn vacation," he muttered, eyes scanning the warped ceiling with detached interest.

Then… more sounds – something scratching along the dusty, wood floor, coming closer to the bed. His body tensed, eyes growing wide. Ghosts, demons or even hungry werewolves he could handle, but not rats. He _hated _rats. Stretching his limbs beyond their limit, he peered over the side of the mattress, eyes searching through the darkness.

"Awww, shit," he groaned when he caught glimpse of a dark shape – the largest rat he'd ever seen scurrying under the bed. Groaning again, he straightened and tugged on the cuffs with renewed vigor, biting his lower lip. Metal clanked against metal, mingling with the foul words spilling from his mouth. Without a doubt, he was going to kill _someone _if he ever got free.

"Damn it… _Sammy_!"

Silence responded, but not what Dean expected after calling out his brother's name. The air grew cold, still and not even the crickets outside continued their song. Suddenly, the mattress dipped from the weight of a body sitting on the edge, causing Dean to roll slightly into the middle toward the unwanted visitor. He knew who it was without looking, and he held his breath, his eyes moving slowly to stare at the spirit's back – waiting, listening, but she didn't move nor speak.

Dark red hair, almost black in the dim lighting was a stark contrast against the cream linen of her night slip. Dean could've sworn she_ glowed_, giving the appearance of an ethereal being instead of a spirit hell bent on revenge. She turned her face to the side, her profile in view with the barest hint of a smile upturning the corner of her mouth. It was an endearing gesture, one reserved only for the person she loved – her husband. Who, at the moment, Dean had been officially dubbed by the townspeople and most likely the spirit as well.

_Just great..._

"Did I wake you?" She finally spoke, her voice soft, youthful. It echoed as though not part of this world entirely, but her presence was tangible; Dean could feel her against him, her skin lightly brushing against the side of his jeans where her hand lay on the mattress. He eyed her fingers warily as they began to move until they rested on his thigh, causing his body to tense even more – taut like an overly stressed wire.

He wondered if he should reply, to play along, but he decided against it when she sighed deeply and moved again – her body flush with his own. One arm draped over his stomach, his muscles clenching tight and he sucked in air, holding it in. Chilled breath tickled the side of his face and neck, causing a wave of gooseflesh to spread across his skin, and he shivered – but not only from the cold.

"I went to see Josephine tonight..."

Dean remained still, breathing in and out evenly though he refused to allow his body to relax. Not until the dead bitch was off him and _gone_. There was nothing he could do as her hand lowered again to stroke his leg, while the other left tantalizing, prickling trails along the nape of his neck and through the short ends of his hair – the sensations causing ripples of unwanted pleasure to pump through his veins where it reached other body parts he did _not _want it to go. Clenching his eyes shut, he counted to ten, forcing himself to stay calm as he slowly moved his leg away as if he was just shifting his body into a more comfortable position. It seemed to work as her hand didn't follow his subtle movement, though her other one continued to massage the base of his neck.

"I wanted to talk to her about keeping you late on the farm these past few weeks. I've missed you… it's dreadfully boring without you here, Jonathan – so quiet."

Licking his lips, Dean replied, hoping he wouldn't regret it soon after, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Kathryn's spirit said, snuggling closer to Dean and sighed contently. "It won't happen again." There was the smallest hint of guilt in her voice, but Dean couldn't tell for sure. Sometimes spirits felt things that the person actually didn't experience in life, when he suspected he was stuck in the middle of a reenactment of a conversation that had occurred over a hundred years ago.

"How did you convince her?" he asked, his voice strained and sounding feeble even to his own ears. He couldn't help but admit he was scared – never had he been this close to a spirit before, and a vengeful one at that, especially in such a touchy-feely, seductive way. It was all wrong, on so many levels.

"I'm sorry, Jonathan… I hope you won't be upset with me?" She sounded like a child about to be scolded for disobeying the rules. He half expected to see her sucking her thumb and canting wide eyes filled with innocence toward him. Good thing he wasn't looking at her – the ceiling becoming particularly interesting as of late. "I know I promised I wouldn't go back to my old ways. I tried, but I couldn't stop…"

_Jesus…a psycho bitch. This is _not _good. Damn it, Sammy you better get your ass out here soon or I'll haunt you for the rest of your life!_

"It all happened so fast. She said so many hateful things, Jonathan. Her words _hurt. _Our baby – she cursed our baby, calling her a hell child. Please, tell me she was lying," she cried, her hands suddenly fisting in Dean's shirt along with the raw emotion of her words. "I know it can't be true."

He didn't know what to say, and even if he did he wasn't sure he'd voice it. So many twists and turns in this town… Where did the lies end and the truth begin? Did Kathryn actually kill Josephine? Then why accuse her husband instead? Why didn't Kathryn confess? Maybe she was trying to protect her child… But then she had killed herself. What had happened to their child?

"Will you forgive me?"

Dean jerked out of his thoughts, gasping when she climbed over him, straddling his hips. The fabric of her skirt rode up her legs to expose pale thighs, and Dean forced his eyes up to stare at her through the fall of her hair, gauging the spirit's intentions even when her body language exuded _sex_. There was no denying her beauty, and the unavoidable sensations of lust snaring Dean into its trap. He tried to push it aside, reminding himself that she was _dead_, but with a woman on top of him, touching him, his body didn't want to listen.

When her hands reached underneath his shirt, lightly scraping her nails up his torso toward his nipples, Dean lost all sense of coherency, but he struggled to bring himself out of his euphoria enough to try and distract the spirit by talking. "Wh-what… nnnn… Why would she say that about the baby?"

"Because of what I am," she said bitterly, her nails digging a little deep to emphasize her words, but she didn't break skin. It only caused Dean to feel more aroused, light-headed and trembling. Then she pulled back, straightening to rub her belly with a tenderness only an expecting mother would show. A small smile reached her lips, one filled with pride and love then it turned haunted, angry when she returned her gaze to Dean. "She thought our child would be the same. I refuse to believe it – do you?"

In that small moment of rage, he actually caught a glimpse of her true self, and it wasn't pretty – rotting flesh, throat slit from ear to ear, and blood coated her skin and the front of her gown. The image immediately caused Dean's state of arousal to dwindle to nothing, and he gagged as a sudden stagnant odor permeated through the air: a combination of mold and death. He also felt the house shudder, the wood groaning and shifting, and years of dust unsettling from the cracks. Did she just do that?

"No… no, I don't," he stammered, his eyes cautiously watching the ceiling for any other movements, but nothing happened.

He swiveled his gaze back to Kathryn when she leaned closer, her breath grazing across his nose and eyelashes to leave a trail of ice in its wake; his eyes closing as his heartbeat thundered in his chest. When she pressed her lips to his, he tried to turn away only for her to grasp his jaw to force him to face forward again, her tongue seeking entrance. Nimble fingers rose and dug through the short spikes of his hair, nails scratching, and he gasped aloud as new sensations spiraled within. Her tongue delved deep, exploring, flirting and dominating in one quick motion. Dean arched his back, his entire body suddenly giving in – the bulge in his jeans true testament of his lack of self-control. He made a countermove, while his tongue sought for victory in the game of dominance as the kiss grew deeper. It barely entered his mind that a spirit was the cause of this, kissing him, rocking her hips against him like a woman desperate for release.

"I love you, Jonathan," she purred, her words floating through the room and through Dean, touching things and stirring up new desires that he didn't even know existed.

Then he snapped when her hands ventured down, past the waistline of his jeans. Immediately, he shook his head and bucked his hips to throw her off, shouting in indignation. He glared at her with as much anger he could possess despite the state of his arousal. The look on her face was raw, like an open wound festering with the reality of his rejection, as if he had just slapped her. However uneasy the reaction made Dean feel, he wasn't going to apologize to a spirit for trying to get into his pants. There was a line drawn while dealing with the supernatural, and undoubtedly, Dean had already crossed it. He had to bring himself back on the other side before it was too late.

"You want this…" she said, though it sounded like she tried to convince herself more than Dean. "You need this. I know you do."

"Look, lady…" He tugged on the restraints, frustrated. "I don't want this, and I certainly don't want you. You're not even my type. I prefer blondes, but thanks for the invitation."

Suddenly horrified, Dean watched, eyes wide, as her appearance changed in an instant, anger consuming her features into a grotesque image of decay and blood. Her hair rose around her head, giving the effect of floating strands of seaweed while her face fluttered and jerked; much like an image on a television screen, deformed and going out of focus. Red dripped in endless streams from the slash across her neck, and he suspected that she had inflicted the wound herself – the final blow in her downward spiral into madness; ending not only her life, but the life of her unborn child as well.

"Uhhh…" he stammered when the house shook again, his body tightening, alarmed.

Wood creaked as if bearing a heavy weight, and moaned against the invisible force. Then the shutters along with the doors began to open and close of their own accord, repeatedly slamming. Bricks cracked and fell from the fireplace, the stone structure finally losing its support, and it crumbled in a large cloud of dust. Dean jumped, straining against the handcuffs, away from the swirling mist of ash and dirt. Soon, the windows shattered as the house tilted and warped, as if it was losing its hold in this world.

Then she gave an ear-piercing scream, her head tilted back and her mouth open wide, stretching beyond its limit like a dark chasm leading into hell. Her wail continued; the sound of fingernails scratching down a chalkboard, and it penetrated his skull, causing his eardrums to burst and bleed, and a wave of gooseflesh washing over his skin. The crimson flow seeped from his ears, barely noticed as he screamed with her, pain-filled and terrified. He was going to die! She was going to drag him down to hell! Why didn't he just say he liked redheads, too?

"_SAM!_"

The house shuddered once more before collapsing, and the last thing Dean remembered was a heavy weight landing on his legs and the faint scent of smoke – something burning. Her cries never ceased; even as his consciousness faded, and he floated on a blissful sea of darkness, gliding across the waves – wondering what hell had to offer in its fiery depths.

**TBC...**


	6. Chapter 6

Part Six

The match was struck, and flames devoured Sheridon's remains with a sudden whoosh. Sam stepped back from the tomb, wiping the dirt from his clothes as he watched the walls inside ignite by the heat of the fire; surfaces turning black and charred from the smoke – cobwebs singing in its wake. With a sigh, he bent down, and picked up the bag full of the 'salt and burn 'em' essentials, tossing it across his shoulder to leave. But he couldn't seem to move, his gaze transfixed, unblinking.

He should've felt triumph, or even a bit of satisfaction after the deed was done. Yet, there was nothing but anxiety settling in the pit of his stomach, as if he hadn't made it in time. The vision came to mind, and he chewed on his nail, worried, with the sudden realization that perhaps he was the cause of what happened in the vision.

Shaking his head, he stepped away from the tomb – his hand resting on the handle of the sawed-off shotgun inside the small duffle over his shoulder. He turned his head to the side, eyeing the Sheriff leaning against the trunk of a willow tree, the branches gently swaying in the morning breeze. Sam resisted the urge to point the gun at Addison, and only stared, watching as the sun slowly ascended behind.

"You don't waste time," Addison commented impassively. "I knew where to find you without thinking twice."

Sam frowned. "Are you going to arrest me again?"

The Sheriff pushed off the tree and slowly filled the distance between them, hands in his pockets. "Arresting you wouldn't do any good."

"That's nice to know," Sam said bitterly, gripping the handle tighter on the shotgun. He wasn't taking any chances – he'd shoot the man if he tried anything to keep Sam from going after his brother.

"Did it actually work?" Addison tipped his chin toward the tomb, the fire still licking at the walls inside, though it had died down considerably. "Do you think she's gone for good?"

"Yes. Where is my brother, Sheriff?"

"What makes you so sure… that she's gone?" The unbridled hope shining in Addison's eyes and dripping from his voice made Sam want to pity him – if only a little. It reminded him of the expectations his own family had while they continued hunting for the demon that had killed their mother and his girlfriend. Bringing up those bitter moments didn't help matters much.

Sam pursed his lips, releasing the shotgun and lowered his hand to his side. "Just trust me, Sheriff."

"Would she really take him?"

Blinking hard, Sam was caught off guard by the question. How do you reassure the man that had condemned your brother as a sacrifice? As empathetic as he was, he couldn't find it in him to give sympathy where it wasn't deserved. He almost wished the spirit had killed Addison. "Sometimes spirits do. It all depends on the emotional state when they died. It's only happened once or twice, that I know of," he said, shrugging. And God, he hoped Dean wasn't the third or he might actually kill Addison himself. "What gave you the idea to go ahead with it? What made you think my brother's life could help you?"

"It's all the ghost would talk about: her husband. Sometimes we could hear her whispers in the dark, or even in our homes. She haunted our families for so many years, moving things or even people – throwing them around like rag dolls, telling us that she wanted him back. When I saw your brother, I couldn't think of anything else…"

"Desperation can blind a man very easily," Sam said, nodding, but not the least bit forgiving. It was a factor he undoubtedly witnessed on more than one occasion with his own father, adding another reason to the very long list of things which caused Sam to leave for college. He sighed, shaking his head.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry," Addison finally said, softly, almost hesitant in admitting to his faults.

_It's a little late for that, _Sam wanted to say, but instead replied with, "Just tell me where is, Sheriff." He tried to stay calm by counting to ten, resisting the temptation to actually shake the man by his shoulders until he confessed. Patience was not on Sam's good side since they arrived in this town. He was turning into Dean more and more each day, it seemed.

Addison suddenly looked away from Sam; regret deepening the lines of his face. "Take I230 until you reach Foley Drive on your right side. Stay on that road – you can't miss the village at the edge of it. It's a grouping of old, wooden homes."

Sam only nodded, stepping around Addison to retrace his steps up the path toward the Impala. He stopped, turned around and nibbled on his bottom lip, contemplating. Then he said the Sheriff's name aloud, almost in question. When Addison spun on his heel, Sam rammed his fist into the older man's face; hard enough to knock him to the ground with a split lip and bleeding nose. Sam's knuckles throbbed from the impact, but he felt lighter, finally satisfied from the impulsive action. He shook his fist to relieve some of the needle-like pain shooting up his arm, not in the least surprised that he had just pulled a 'Dean' by punching the Sheriff. Looking down at the fallen man, he said, "For what it's worth… I'm _not_ sorry."

He found the place with no problem; surrounded by a cloud of settling dust. There was no abandoned village however; it was as if it had vanished, and Sam clearly remembered the Sheriff telling him there would be _something_ here. Yet, nothing; not even a stray piece of wood or stone – just land that looked like it had been recently cleared for new development to come through.

Slowing the car down, he scanned the area, almost overlooking a mound of dirt until he realized that the pile was wearing Dean's navy shirt. Sam did a double take, slamming on the brakes and jumped out of the car seconds after. Running forward, he gasped out, "Oh, God… Dean!"

He skidded to a stop on his knees next to Dean's body, rolling him over onto his back. Sam's breath hitched in his throat when he took everything in – the cuts, bruises and blood, new and old caking his brother's face; barely recognizable under the grime. Handcuffs encased his wrists and ankles, chaffed and red from struggling. Dean didn't stir in his arms, his mouth slack and head lolling back over Sam's arm. For fear of anything broken, he cradled his brother's body with care, mindful not to jostle him around. He ran his hand down the side of Dean's face, brushing away dust and blood, and rubbing against a deep cut across his cheekbone.

"Dean? Wake up, man! Come on…"

Then he coughed once, twice as he jackknifed out of Sam's arms, rolling to the side with a painful grunt. He lay face down in the dirt, obviously dazed or out cold again, and Sam helped him on his back. Dean blinked, squinting up at Sam, his eyes vague with possible signs of a concussion. "What the…?"

"Jesus, Dean… you scared the shit out of me," Sam said, laughing breathlessly and relieved. "Are you okay? Anything broken?"

Dean looked around them, blinking back tears. His brows furrowed, ashe was clearly confused, disoriented. Shifting in Sam's arms, he croaked, "Did you do this?"

"Do what?" Sam followed Dean's gaze, looking out at a vacant field.

"Where's the village?"

Sam's vision came to mind and he finally realized that burning Sheridon's remains was the cause of the collapse. Her spirit was attached to her home, the village, thus taking it with her to hell. At least it wasn't Dean – anything but him. "Sorry," he mumbled with a half smile. "I guess I did."

"You're a jerk," Dean said before going limp, losing consciousness.

----

Dean woke to the hum of an air conditioner; blinking up at a cream-colored ceiling, and figured they were in another run-down motel on the outskirts of a city that seemed like a distant memory to him. He started questioning what the hell had happened when he felt the aches and pain. He blinked again, his vision blurry, and that damn air conditioner wasn't helping with his headache.

Groaning, he tried to prop up on his elbows to get a better view of the room, but quickly decided against it when the walls started to spin in dizzying angles. He lay back, breathless and cradling his head in his hands, closing his eyes to ease some of the discomfort. Then events started to come back to him – Sheridon's spirit molesting him, the house collapsing on top of him only to vanish seconds later. He also remembered Sammy, but everything else beyond that was a blur. He sighed, a little relieved considering that he felt like he had gotten into the worst bar fight and lost. The muscles in his legs were stiff, sore like he had run a hundred miles nonstop – but at least they weren't broken, just heavily bruised.

"Sammy?" he wheezed, cringing at the sound of his voice, and he swallowed thick against the sand paper sensation at the back of his throat. It only made it worse and he suddenly craved water. He looked around, searching for a bedside table, thinking he was still in a motel room, where he usually kept a plastic cup of water handy, but only found medical equipment – an X-ray machine towering over with him on the table. This surprised him, and he could only blink up in confusion. Granted, whoever put him there was kind enough to make sure the metal surface was as comfortable as possible with numerous layers of blankets underneath him, including two pillows.

"Dean?"

He turned his head toward the door, so damn _relieved_ to see Sam walking in with not a hair out of place, or a scratch on his body; just a cup of steaming coffee in his hand. A small smile spread across Dean's lips, but he asked just for good measure, "Are you okay?" Sam actually gave him a look, and Dean's eyebrows shot up. "What?"

"I'm fine, Dean. I don't think the same can be said for you, though."

"Ah, I've had worse," he said, shrugging his shoulders awkwardly. There was no way in hell he was going to move from the table now. Sam didn't need to see how much pain he really was in, and to top it off his hearing was muted as if a bunch of cotton had been stuffed down his ears. His vision still wouldn't focus, either. "Hospital run out of beds?"

"Clinic," Sam corrected. "And it was the most comfortable spot in the place. A woman named Lynn actually offered to make a bed for you in her house, but the doc wanted to keep a close eye on you."

"Lynn? I'll be damned…"

Sam nodded, and pulled up a chair to sit beside the table. "Do you know her?"

"Yeah. Sheriff's wife," Dean mumbled, smacking his lips together and swallowing. He needed water. Sam noticed, and stood, grabbing a paper cup from a nearby counter, filling it from the faucet. Gracious for the reprieve, Dean rolled to his side and emptied the cup in two gulps. He crushed the paper in his hand, tossing it from listless fingers as he shifted on his back again. Too much and he'd throw it back up, yet, he wanted more; his parched throat still not satisfied.

"What did you do? Hit on her?"

"No, the woman simply had sympathy for a helpless man strung up in her basement. I can't help it that I'm better looking than you, too. Added bonus."

"Man, in your dreams," Sam rebutted, nudging Dean's arm playfully.

"What about Addison? And Larry?"

Sam shook his head in disappointment. "Sorry, the Sheriff skipped town. The last I saw of him was the in the cemetery after I punched him."

Dean gaped like a fish out of water. "You punched him?" Sam nodded, smiling. "Ah, that's my boy."

"Larry was arrested for assault – Lynn pressed charges against him."

"That was nice," Dean said wistfully. "What about the charges for you breaking into the library?"

"You heard about that?" His brother actually looked embarrassed, a faint blush dotting his cheeks.

"Dude, this is a small town. Even word passes to the hostages."

Sam laughed, clearly avoiding the subject. "The doc said once you're good enough to stand on your feet, we're good to go."

"Ah hell." Decision suddenly made, Dean sat up, only for Sam to press a hand to his chest to settle him down onto the blankets again. "What are you doing? I'm ready to go."

"Just cool it for a bit. You have a concussion after numerous blows to the head, and nearly broke both of your legs."

Dean sighed, draping an arm across his eyes. "That bitch… did you know she actually tried to seduce me?"

"And did it work?"

"No. Well… damn it, yes."

"Why am I not surprised?" Sam mused, and took a casual sip of his coffee.

To not have a good comeback, Dean knew his consciousness was fading, and he vaguely wondered if Sam had drugged him. He was suddenly too tired to think further, his eyes drooping heavily, but he couldn't forget one important thing.

"Hey Sammy?" he mumbled, eyelids fluttering open until he found the blurred outline of Sam sitting beside him. A lazy grin spread across his mouth as he gave a consoling pat upon Sam's arm, threatening, "If there's one dent in my car, I'll kick your ass, dude.

* * *

**This is it, guys. Thanks so much for reading and supporting me. I really appreciated each and every review given. Obviously, this was just a test run to get into the characters, etc. Next story will be much darker and lengthy. I'm not used to five pages a chapter -- more like twenty. OO So look forward to my next story coming soon!**

**I want to give a big thanks to Carrie and Ami for being my second and third eye on this -- you girls are the best! **


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